


Return

by orphan_account



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meechum comes back from three months of training.  Francis is happy to see him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If I get some comments, I will probably continue with more chapters with hardcore content. Maybe including Claire!

It was hard to recall exactly when it started, that slow, scarcely noticeable shift from indifference to respect to something altogether different but somehow Edward Meechum now appeared on Francis Underwood’s short, short mental list of people to protect, people who mattered - a list as indelible as if it had been surgically etched on his heart. Maybe it was when the little cuss had stood up to him outside the church or when he’d shown he’d had a pair of balls by begging for his job, Francis didn’t know, but maybe it was just the hours he spent staring at the back of the younger man’s head as they waited outside Zoe’s apartment in the rain. It didn’t matter but Edward’s three months absence had, for Francis and Claire. Both having become spoiled by the handsome body guard’s sweet, shy attentions. Of course Edward had to go; he needed the extra training so that he’d be eligible to accompany them overseas.

Sitting on the patio outside the Residence, Francis sipped a glass of green tea, grimacing; Claire was on a kick and insisted that he drink it instead of coffee or Coca-Colas and after the rowing machine incident, he’d learned to heed her advice on such matters. A polite cough from his side alerted him to Miller's presence. Francis had almost grown used to the Butler’s hovering.

“A Mr. Edward Meechum to see you, Mr. President. Shall I admit him?”  
Francis sat up, his tall glass almost cracking against the cast-iron of the patio table. Meechum’s training was over! He’d have thanked God if he’d been sheep enough to believe in one.

“Please, call him in,” he said, drawing on his inner reserves not to yell as the Butler walked slowly to the gate of the privacy fence surrounding the White House’s inner gardens.

He’d filled out some, Francis noticed, in the shoulders but otherwise he was much the same if not a bit thin and careworn, like a lost pet, he thought with a pang of emotion that would have left him gobsmacked if it had been directed at anyone else, someone less deserving.

“Mr. Meechum,” he murmured, not getting up to shake the man’s hand; hierarchy of power must be maintained at all cost, at least in front of others; besides, standing up would have displayed a swelling in Francis’s crotch that might have been considered unseemly by most. Their hands lingered together, just enough for both to feel the slight moisture betraying nervous excitement.

“Please, Edward, sit.” Edward did, promptly, well-trained.

“I was just about to have lunch. Are you hungry?”

Edward’s tongue dabbed his lips. “Yes, Sir. I’m starving,” he answered, his eyes flickering, tracking the row of pearly buttons of Francis’s shirt downward…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be longer, I promise!

Miller hovered discretely while the President and Meechum ate their sandwiches, ready to swoop closer to refill glasses of iced tea or suggest desert. There was nothing to overhear, at least not yet; the two had refined their ability to enjoy each other’s company in comparative silence.

“Have you settled in to your new place?” asked Francis, finally, staring at his lover’s dark eyes with pleasure.

“Not yet,” replied Edward, nodding towards the overnight case he stowed next to his chair. Now that Underwood was President, Edward had been given the option of living on the grounds of the White House. A row of carriage houses had been converted into efficiency apartments for members of the President’s security team.

“There was a problem with the pipes. Should take about three days to sort it all out. I thought I’d find a hotel…”

“Nonsense,” barked Francis, tapping the table with his class ring for additional emphasis. “Claire would have kittens if she found out I’d let you leave. It’s a shame she won’t be back until tomorrow night. She’s attending a rally in Colorado to support her new bill.” Francis craned his neck. “Miller?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“I’ve got a house guest. Please take Mr. Meechum’s bag and place it in the Rose bedroom. Air it out while you’re there – fresh towels and whatnot.”  Miller's face remained its normal blank as he picked up the small suitcase, returning inside the Residence.

“But Sir,” protested Edward.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Francis replied with a voice filled with scarcely disguised desire.


	3. Propriety

He had planned to press Edward against the nearest surface, to kiss and rut against him the moment Miller took his leave. But as soon as the door closed quietly, leaving them in privacy, Francis turned to gather Edward in his arms to bestow a long, fierce hug.

“How I’ve missed you,” he said with a deep, shuddering sigh as Edward dipped down enough to tuck his chin against Francis’s neck. “Claire and I both.”

“Me, too,” was Edward’s simple reply. He was a quiet man but his body, now molding sweetly against the president’s, spoke volumes.

“You’re thin,” worried Francis, running his broad hands along the knobs of the Secret Service agent’s backbone. Edward held still, barely suppressing a soft laugh as Francis’s hands roamed over the faint lines of his ribs.

“Sorry. Ticklish,” he explained. “I’m fine. Training was worse than boot camp. I’ve never been in better shape,” he explained, slipping off his jacket and the bright white polo shirt, complete with a small patch – the Presidential Seal.

Francis whistled at the display of finely sculpted manhood in front of him.

His Edward.

No, _**their**_ Edward, he thought with a grin, envisioning Claire’s pleasure at their lover’s long-awaited return as he brushed his lips against Edward’s left nipple, coaxing the warm, pink-brown bud to stiffness.

“Shall I give you the tour?” Francis asked, grinning at Edward’s groan of protest and taking him by the hand.

…

“Claire and I sleep down there, at the end of the hall,” Francis pointed while opening the door to the Rose Bedroom, only two doors down. It was pink, as the named implied, almost painfully so.

“Don’t worry, Edward. I won’t make you sleep in this Pepto-Bismol monstrosity,” said Francis, glaring at the previous administrations attempts at fashionable home décor, all to aware of his gratitude that Claire shared his taste for clean, simple lines.

“Your shaving kit, please,” he asked, pausing to allow Edward’s kiss, not to mention those long, nimble fingers working the buttons of Francis’s crisp dress shirt. Edward deliberately brushed against him, before begrudgingly unzipping his small suitcase, the seams of his trousers strained by the loyal agent’s substantial erection.

“Thank you,” replied Francis, unzipping the small bag on the way to the bedroom’s adjoining bathroom. He placed Edward’s sundries, his razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and comb neatly about the sink and the nearby counter, carefully mussing the neatness, adding a blob of toothpaste in the sink, a dab of shaving cream on the mirror before turning on the shower. He grabbed a large towel and ran it briefly under the spray of water before wadding it up and tossing it to the ground. Turning off the shower, Francis unrolled a foot or two of the unused roll of toilet paper, flushing it.

“Almost done,” he said, walking Edward backwards until the back of the taller man’s legs bumped the bed. Edward grinned, falling back with impressive grace, taking the President with him. It wasn’t long before the neatly made bed looked remarkably well used.

“Sir, your pants…” gasped Edward. “My pants…” His long, elegant legs were wrapped around Francis’s hips and plainly, he longed for the skin to skin contact they’d missed for three long months.

Francis lifted his head to examine the surroundings. Yes, he thought. Enough had been done to make it look as though Edward has slept in the Rose Bedroom instead of the President and First Lady’s, not that he gave a flying fuck. Miller was a keenly observant man and Francis had his doubts about whether this gentle ruse would fool him but a nod to propriety was always good form. He reluctantly untangled himself, pulling Edward to his feet.

“Shall we take this to my bed?” Francis asked.

“Coming,” Edward replied, stumbling eagerly after him.


	4. Chapter 4

“Just a second,” said Edward, turning around to rifle through his overnight bag, retrieving what looked like a rolled up bath towel. Francis didn’t ask, merely cocking an eyebrow at the blushing Secret Service agent as they stripped near the king-sized bed.

“I’ve been practicing,” Edward managed, unfurling the towel to reveal a bottle of lube and a small dildo, It was flesh colored and a slight curve as well as vaguely life-like balls at the base.

“Jesus,” swore Francis, reaching out to examine the device. Before Edward left they had attempted anal intercourse but the younger man was inexperienced and nervous, so much so that their coupling was unsuccessful. Edward took it back and slathered it with lubricant. “I wanted to be ready for you, Sir,” he explained.

“Do you want to see me?”

*

He pulled up a leg, almost to his chest, with practiced ease as he seated the head of the dildo against the circle of his anus; while Francis watched, Edward pressed it slowly inside until the ‘balls’ were flush against his opening. Edward, eyes closed, moaned as he pulled it out several inches before plunging the dildo back inside. His face, his entire body in fact, began to relax as he began to develop a rhythm to it.

“May I?”

“Yes, S..ir!” stammered Edward, blinking as he watched Francis lean forward, grasping the dildo’s base.

It was harder than Francis thought for despite Edward’s practiced relaxation the dildo was difficult to maneuver, pushing against the man’s clenching muscles. But he prevailed, they both did and within a few strokes Francis was certain he’d successfully located his lover’s prostate and began aiming for it.

Edward was quiet – but then again, he always was. Years of barracks and tents had taught him to come almost silently. They were working on that; both Claire and Francis wanted to hear more while they made love to their steadfast partner and encouraged every moan and grunt.The ‘show’ was almost too much but Francis was aching and wanted to fill Edward with something bigger.

“Stop,” he said; an order rather than a mere request – at least that was how the agent took it, obeying instantly. The dildo was withdrawn, wrapped carefully back up and put aside.

“Do you want me?” asked the leader of the free world as he slid his fingertip over Edward’s slit.

“Lie down, Francis,” replied Edward; his body answering the question as his cock bobbed stiffly as he moved to grab the lube. Amused and more than aroused, Francis obeyed, holding still while his cock was made slick.

“My, my,” he murmured, his voice soft and needy as Edward straddled his hips. “This is new.”

“Yes, Sir,” agreed Edward, a trifle smugly as he mounted Francis, leaning forward to kiss even as his hips began to slowly gyrate.  Francis braced his heels against the mattress and bucked his hips eagerly with every down stroke.  "Yes, Sir!  Yes, Mr. President," yelped Edward, his cock emptying messily against the world leader's belly.

*

The Presidency adds extra years to those who serve, though it had less of a toll on Francis, a man effectively without a conscience. But still, afterwards, he looked younger, almost carefree as he and Edward spooned together in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Kissing the taller man’s shoulder, Francis spoke.

“Did you get the postcard we sent you?”

“Mmm-hmm,” answered Edward sleepily.

“Sorry we couldn’t sign it.” The postcard, sent to London, two months into Edward’s training, had simply read: ‘Miss you’ in block letters. It would have revealed too much if it had been as personal as the Underwood's would have liked it to be.

“But you knew it was from me and Claire?”

Edward turned around to kiss him. “Don’t know who else would send me a postcard of the Peachoid,” he laughed.

Sighing happily, Francis kissed him back.  “I’m glad you’re home, Edward.”


End file.
